Arthur is a king among cats, a gray lion, a loveable scamp, a cheeky character … he is at once the best cat and the worst cat. Friends I have not seen in years always ask after him. Arthur makes an impression.
For a cat, he has an uncanny ability to read people. Arthur is a better matchmaker than any Internet dating site: no potential suitor has gotten away unscathed or unscratched. If Arthur wasn’t that into a guy, I knew I shouldn’t be either. Arthur was how I knew on our first date my husband was special; Arthur ran to greet him and he said “I love cats” (we now have 3). Arthur returned his love a thousand fold. When we’ve been sad, or fighting, or uncertain, Arthur is there in our laps, purring, letting us know that it will be ok …
Arthur had never met a bathtub he didn’t poop in, or a closed door he didn’t try to escape from. One memorable day he called on our neighbour, visited his tub and walked right out his front door. Arthur came home after a few hours of adventure, his tail held high, just in time for dinner. Our neighbour never fails to ask about Arthur’s latest adventure (though he has invested in a screen door).
And now at 14 years old, his kidneys are starting to give out on him. There have been several white-knuckle trips to the vet, and Arthur has used up a few of his nine lives. But still he climbs the 9-foot fence in our yard to stare down and survey his territory, his domain, where he reigns as king.